


Burn in purifying flame

by Gorgeous Nerd (gorgeousnerd)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Season 7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeousnerd/pseuds/Gorgeous%20Nerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the bombs fell, everyone fled to the cities.  Except the hunters.  (Danger Days AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn in purifying flame

**Author's Note:**

> Happy first anniversary of my first-ever [bandom fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/175430)! Have bandom-flavored Supernatural! The title comes from MCR's "The Only Hope For Me Is You", and there's spoilers through 7x17. 
> 
> (Also on [DW](http://firmament.dreamwidth.org/50845.html) and [LJ](http://chomalfoyfics.livejournal.com/59894.html).)

Dean's tinkering with the Impala again. Dust keeps clogging sensitive parts - parts obscure enough that even Sam, raised around mechanics, can't keep up when Dean tries to explain - and in this world, wheels equal life. Dean's lying on a jacket; he never wears it, he thinks the colors of the zones are fugly as hell, but it makes a good oil rag.

"Pass me the wrench?"

Sam pulls the wrench out of the toolbox and stares for a minute. They still have most of their original tools, plus others that they picked up here and there. People would kill for this kind of metal. People have killed for it. Sam's seen the scorch marks.

"Today, Sammy?"

"Sorry," Sam says, wiping sweat off his forehead and handing Dean the tool. He goes to the ice chest and pulls out a beer. Funny how alcohol was a nice way to kick back in the old days, and how it's now the easiest potable substance to find. At least there's no one to pull you over for a DUI.

He sits back and lets the desert wind blow in his face. If there's one nice thing about the end of the world, it's that the dreary wet they'd never seemed to escape before is a thing of the past.

-

Two years after the Leviathans fell on Dick Roman, two years after they regulated themselves and formed the weirdest truce to ever exist with the Winchesters, humans discovered their existence. And with that discovery came others: ghosts and werewolves and shapeshifters and everything else Sam and Dean had fought to keep out of people's lives.

When the bombs fell, their work didn't mean a damn thing.

When they're driving between zones, and they see the remnants of houses and towns, Sam always sees Dean's jaw set. Never mind that they've seen these wastelands for five years, never mind that they've been living this way for years, that they were old and jaded before either of them had hit thirty. It's like Dean has a running counter over his head of all the people he failed to save when war broke out.

But Sam remembers the early days. He remembers the texts from every hunter they'd ever worked with, sending one word.

Run.

Dean hadn't wanted to. But Sam had dragged him until they'd found a shelter, and Sam had gotten him drunk when the first explosions hit, and Sam had found the gear and food that had gotten them through the worst of the beginning when Dean hadn't wanted to move.

So Dean saw all the dead. Sam only saw the one person he'd managed to save.

-

A building in the zones means someone to take care of it.

Dean slows the car a few hundred feet back, enough to hide in the waving mirage on the road. Sam clicks on the radio and runs the dials across miles of static until they hear beeps. He scribbles on a piece of paper.

"So?" Dean asks after the beeps start to repeat and Sam checks their coordinates on a map.

He finally nods. "This is one of them."

They pull out their guns. Sam gives Dean a moment to geek out - and why not, out of all the things they've lost, can't a guy enjoy living in a future where he gets to sling around freaking ray guns? - and then they're walking.

When they're within visual distance, Dean yells, "Anyone in there?"

It takes a second, but a voice yells back, "Who's asking?"

Dean smirks. He might not be into the zonerunner lifestyle, but he latched on one thing pretty fast. Unsurprisingly. "Death Magnetic."

Sam winces and waits for the rest.

"And my partner." Dean pauses. "Hell's Bells."

Huh. AC/DC reference. Dean's feeling nice today.

The door opens. "Get your ass in here, Winchester, and quit screwing around."

Dean snorts and runs inside. He always looks a little surprised when people know his real name, but Sam isn't. When the bombs fell, everyone fled to the cities...except the hunters, who stayed in their hidey-holes like they always had, even when the land dried up and died around them. The motorbabies who'd inevitably fled corporate control had had an older generation to teach them survival, and that generation knew two names, for better or worse.

It wasn't Sam's ego expecting everyone to know his name. It was practical fact.

The owner of this building is pure zonerunner: dyed pink fauxhawk, orange jacket with black pants, blue tattoos on dark skin. But unlike a lot of the rats in the wastes, she also has Devil's Traps painted on her ceiling and a no-nonsense look to her face.

"Heard on the waves you two were coming," she says as she hands them cans of dog food. Even after years of eating little else, Sam's stomach still turns at the thought. But that's just a heartbeat's worth of time before he starts gulping it down. "I know a psychic in Zone Five who got a read on it."

"Your psychic say anything about work?" Sam asks. Dean's too busy stuffing his face, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

"Unfortunately, yeah." The zonerunner - who'd introduced herself as Salt Ring when she'd held open the door to let them in - furrows her brow. Sam would think she looked young if anyone looked young anymore. "But you guys aren't gonna like this one."

Dean clears his mouth just enough to say, "We never do, sweetheart."

She sneers at the endearment and unrolls a map. After a moment's pause, she sets what looks like an old salt shaker dead in the center.

Battery City.

"I hear you're the only ones who'll do jobs inside," she says, tapping her fingernails on the tabletop. "But if you want to tell them to ghost themselves--"

"No," Sam says. "We'll take it. What's going on?"

"Reports are patchy that far in. But everyone seemed to agree that every victim was lying in sulphur."

Sam sighs. "And S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W's not doing anything about it?"

Salt Ring snorts. "They're too busy chasing us around."

He hears what she doesn't say: Better Living Industries was part of the bombing force that eradicated the supernatural threat from the face of the planet. Any citizen who lives in their walls has nothing to fear.

Right.

Dean pushes away his empty can, and when Sam's stomach's full, they head back out to the car.

"Think we should call in our backup for this one?" Dean asks.

Sam bites his lip. They have to get inside Battery City without tipping off Dracs, and back out again. They have to take all the contraband they can carry on bikes, since there's no way Dean's bringing the Impala close enough to Battery City for an ID, much less danger. They have to stay alive and uncaptured. And almost none of that has to do with the job itself.

"Think we'd better," he says finally.

-

They make it to the shack after the sun sets. But a figure outside's waiting for them like she knew they were coming, not wincing in the wake of the Impala's headlights.

"Meg," Sam says when they climb out, nodding once.

She gives him a special smile. Maybe they have a truce, but she's run his body before, and there's no way he'll ever be comfortable around her.

Judging by Dean's curled lip, he won't, either. "He inside?"

She nods, and they walk forward.

Just like he always is when they visit, Castiel's sitting on his bed, staring at nothing. Not that there's anything to stare at: the walls are plain except for the occasional sigil that won't hurt a demon or an angel. He can't sleep or eat, just like Sam couldn't eat or sleep when he'd had the soul damage, but Castiel can't die from the lack of either.

He flinches when Dean says his name, and Sam knows that Cas's immortality is not a blessing.

"Visit or work?" Cas asks in a rough voice.

"Work," Dean says. It's the best they can do for him these days: cut straight to the point.

"The city?" Cas asks.

Sam nods. And then he speaks because sometimes, Cas isn't in touch with reality enough to pick up non-verbal cues. "Yeah."

Cas stands, legs shaking. He grabs both Sam and Dean by the face, and Sam has a split second to think that this'll be the time they'll appear in a wall, or under the ocean, or in the middle of a bunch of Dracs.

But Sam blinks, and he's sucking in moist air and looking up at skyscrapers. He shivers a little.

"Pray for me, and I'll return," Cas says. And he's gone again.

"Cheery guy, isn't he," Dean mutters. He slings his bag over his shoulder. "Let's get this over with."

-

A demon tearing three people apart in an apartment building isn't enough to get attention. Sam and Dean performing an exorcism on the demons? It's practically Star Trek with all the red alert sirens.

They make it to the stairwell and end up shooting three Dracs before Sam takes a bolt to the arm. Sam hisses and grabs at his arm. It's only a graze. Luckily.

"Cas!" Dean yells seconds later. "Get your ass in here, you feathery--"

Sam hears the flap of wings and feels a touch on his back, and then he's out in the desert again, collapsing against the Impala. A hand closes over his arm, and the pain disappears.

He looks up into blue eyes, surrounded by rings so deep, the skin seems flayed. Sam flinches, but he doesn't look away.

"Who'd you send back this time?" Meg asks in her oddly husky sing-song voice. She lets Cas throw an arm over her shoulder. "Someone I know?"

"Your mom," Dean says automatically.

Meg snorts, but she guides Cas back inside carefully. Sam shakes his head. Only the end of the world would leave a demon voluntarily helping an angel, and, by all accounts, seeming to like it.

Dean runs his hand over the Impala's hood, like just demon proximity for the past few hours might've damaged the body. "Think the old girl can make it out to the Mad Gear show?"

"You want to go to a concert?" Sam asks, climbing into the front seat. "You?"

"What? I like music."

"Music made before any of the guys playing in Mad Gear were alive."

Dean throws up his hands after he slams his door shut. "The zonerunners have the best moonshine, and we both know it."

It's true. When he drinks it, Sam sees double on the first shot alone. Pretty awesome.

"After you, Death," Sam says with a grin.

Dean snickers, and the engine comes to life with a roar.


End file.
